


Can't Live Without You

by consulting_superwholockian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, John Watson is so Gay, Love Confession, M/M, POV Alternating, Pre Season 3, Suicide Attempt, it's okay he fails
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 09:41:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1600253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_superwholockian/pseuds/consulting_superwholockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You didnt come back, so Im coming to you," I breathed. I closed my eyes, and held the gun to my temple, bracing myself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**JOHN'S POV**

"Thank you," I said gruffly, handing the cabbie the rest of my notes. I turned around and looked at the familiar sight. London Cemetery. The resting place of Sherlock, and soon to be: me, John Watson.  
  
I shut the door, waving the cab off. Slowly, almost reluctantly, I looked across the graveyard and walked towards his... Sherlock's grave. For the past three years, I had been trying to deny that he hadnt died. That he wasnt... dead. I kidded myself for three bloody years and it was then I realized how much I loved... do love the consulting detective. I kept feeling my pistol brushing against my thigh, making my depression and my limp (which had returned the day I watched him commit... suicide) worse. I was sad, knowing I would miss Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, and even Sally and Anderson, but none of them compared to how much I missed the one and only Sherlock Holmes. It was too hard living without him in 221B.  
  
Suddenly I found myself at his grave, nearly tripping over the top of it. Seeing his name nearly pushed me over the edge, remembering that horrible day.  
  
"Goodbye, John."  
  
The words rung in my ears. I had tried everything. First, my therapist, who did no help whatsoever, then the pub, which numbed the pain but only temporarily. Last, I had tried drugs, which had caused me to start hallucinating. I would see Sherlock everywhere: at the doctor's office I worked at, back at the apartment, and when I had to pass it, the top of St. Barts.  
  
Where he  
  
f  
  
  
e  
  
  
l  
  
  
l.  
  
I began to sob uncontrollably and slumped back against a nearby tree. I tried taking in deep breaths so that I could prepare my final speech. Not just my final speech to Sherlock, but to anyone. When I could nearly breath normally again, I stumbled over to the grave.  
  
I sucked in another deep breath. "You know, S-Sherlock," my voice cracked. "when I first met you, you asked me what my last words would be if someone were threating to kill me, and I said, 'Oh god, please let me live'. And you were right, they were rubbish last words. It's funny though, instead of someone killing me, here I am, about to f-finish off myself," I laughed without any humor. "Its ironic, you know, killing myself in a graveyard, huh? Wouldnt you agree?" I waited for a reply I knew I would never receive, then continued. "You have no idea how much I've missed you. I was engaged and everything to a woman named Mary. Dont get me wrong, s-she was a lovely woman, but that's when I realized..." I cleared my throat, holding back tears that were threatening to spill. "Anyways, I broke it off with her. She wasnt for me." I gulped, ready to finish off my speech. "Sherlock bloody Holmes, I prayed you werent dead. Even though you could be an annoying dickhead at times, you were... are my only friend. It was my last request, for you not to be dead. I already knew you were no fake, and I just needed you alive. But it's okay now," I hesitated; I was at breaking point. "You didnt come back, so Im coming to you," I breathed. I closed my eyes and held the gun to my temple, bracing myself. "I love you, Sherlock," I whispered, moving my index finger over the trigger. I was just barely applying pressure when I heard him.  
  
"JOHN!" A very familiar, deep, silky voice called in the distance. I opened my eyes, looking straight ahead where I saw him.  
  
Sherlock.  
  
"Another d-damn hallucination," I whispered, letting my tears flow freely. I slipped the gun back up to my tem-  
  
"JOHN, NO! STOP!" He called again.  
  
"S-S-Sherlock?" I called weakly, dropping the gun to my side, my finger still on the trigger. He was standing right in front of me.  
  
"John! Im alive!" He put his hands on my shoulders. "I was about to come home, I finished off the rest of the snipers. They were going to kill you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson! I had to fake my dea-"  
  
His voice faded as my head kept repeating, "He is alive. He is talking. He touched me. Im not dreaming." I was shocked. I looked up in his eyes, and then:  
  
CRACK!  
  
Everything went white. 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**SHERLOCK'S POV**

Today was a ridculously happy day, even for a highly functioning sociopath like myself. I had finally finished off the last of the snipers: Sebastian Moran. Over the past three years, I had grown more and more determined to find the three, all to get back to John and 221B.   
  
John.   
  
I missed him more and more with each day that passed. Within the first year, I had no idea what these feelings were. After deducing muself for hours at a time (seeing as here was nothing better to do), I had come to a conclusion.   
  
I love my blogger, John Watson.  
  
I returned to the graveyard, over to the tree by my tombstone to where I had hid some belongings of mine that I had collected of the years, but more importantly, a present for John. I picked up my pace at the thought of him, smiling to myself, which was still unfamiliar to me. Smiling. Happiness. Caring. /Caring is not an advantage,/ Mycroft had once said. If I hadnt cared, I doubt I wouldve bothered killing those snipers with the determination I had. I only really cared about the army doctor; not for a second would I change my attitude around anyone else with my return. As I began nearing that bloody grave, I saw a figure standing over my grave. Blond, cream-colored jumper, red pants... John. John was here.   
  
With a gun pointing at his temple.   
  
I nearly collasped, but found enough strength to sprint over as fast as possible. "JOHN!" I yelled as loud as I possibly could. Why would he kill himself over... could he possibly love me back? No one has ever loved /me/.   
  
I barely heard him mutter over my thoughts. He was muttering something about damn hallucinations, his pistol to his temple. "JOHN, NO! STOP!" I screamed, close enough to put my hands on his shoulders, therefore convincing him I was real. He was pale; his pupils dilated. He could use one of those shock blankets. "John! Im alive!" I panted. "I was about to come home, I finished off the rest of the snipers. They were going to kill you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson! I had to fake my dea-"   
  
CRACK!   
  
I looked at John, then watched as he fell onto the dirt below us.   
  
"No," I mumbled, my vision blurred, wet with what was most likely tears. "John, no." I didnt have time to deduce myself. I fell to my knees, and checked his pulse. Slow. Breathing: shallow. He shot himself in the thigh, barely missing an artery. Unconscious, most likely due to shock and pain. My body screamed with relief, then tensed again. I didnt have a phone to call paramedics. I checked John's pockets, then found his cell in a pocket in his pants. I quickly dialed 999.   
  
"What's your emerg-"  
  
"London Cemetary, a man, John Watson, shot humself in the thigh. He missed the artery, however, needs immediate medical attention."  
  
"Paramedics are on thier way. Hey, you sound a lot like that She-"  
  
I hung up, not bothering willing to bother myself with imbeciles. I began to carry John to the entrance of the dreaded place, hurriedly grabbing my present and scarf. We were about halfway when the ambulance showed up, along with a couple of police cars, one of those police cars containing Lestrade and Sally. Brilliant. I watched as John was put on a stretcher, that is, until I felt myself being dragged by the hair and slammed against the police car.   
  
"You have a lot of explaining to do, Sherlock," I heard Lestrade's voice from behind me, while locking my hands into handcuffs.   
  
"Lestrade, what the bloody hell- oh," I started, then realized how inappropriate this looks in their eyes. I remembered making them think I was a criminal, and John was my hostage three years back, that being said, I shot John instead of his finger slipping on the trigger and injuring himself.   
  
Idiots.   
  
Instead of struggling further, I let Lestrade force me into the car. As much as I wanted to, I wouldnt be allowed to visit John in the hospital, at least for now. I will have to answer a lot of unnescessary questions at the station, and once Lestrade gets it through his thick skull, I'd most likely be let go, and back to working on cases. I scoweled in the car, annoyed. I needed to see John as soon as possible. I needed to fix everything.   
  
Most importantly, I needed John to be okay. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**JOHN'S POV**

Beep. 

Beep.   
  
Beep.   
  
My eyes fluttered open, white light instantly blinding me. I groaned, shutting my eyes again. Where the hell was I? I sat up (in a bed that wasnt my own), and forced myself to open my eyes again. Looking around, it took me hardly a second to figure out where I was. The IV and heart monitor kind of gave it away.   
  
St. Barts.   
  
My eyes instantly became watery as I began to remember where I was before this. London Cemetary. Visiting Sherlock's grave. Holding a gun to my temple. I tried getting up, but the pain was unbearable. I winced as I looked at the source of the pain: my right thigh. Over the wound was a bandage that wrapped completely around me leg. I felt my temple. No wound. That's when I remembered.   
  
Sherlock.   
  
He had to have been a hallucination, there was no possible explanation. I couldnt help but laugh- after all these years, three painful years, I was trying to convince myself he wasnt dead. Now I was attempting to convince myself the complete opposite.   
  
But he touched my shoulders, it had to have been real. I could still feel his cold, bony hands, gripping them.   
  
Knock, knock.   
  
I turned my head towards the door. "Who is it?" I asked. Without a reply, the door opened. A familiar tall man in a suit walked in. Mycroft Holmes.   
  
"Doctor John Watson, nice to see you again. How are you feeling?" the older Holmes asked.   
  
"Mycroft, Im not getting in one of your cars and going to God knows where."  
  
"That is not why Im here, Im genuinely concerned about your health."  
  
"Im feeling great, fantastic," I sarcastically replied. "Now really, why are you here?"  
  
Mycroft paused, looking back at the door. "You have another visitor."  
  
I watched as the next man walked into the room. I take that back, he didnt walk in, he /flew/ in. His coat trailed behind him; his black curls bounced as he moved. His blue scarf hung loosely around his neck. His pale skin shone in the light.   
  
The one and only, Sherlock Holmes. My heart began to race as he walked to my bedside, pain and guilt clearly etched on his face.   
  
"Im dreaming," I nearly yelled before I could stop myself. This was impossible. Utterly impossible.   
  
"No John, you arent dreaming. Im... Im alive. I had to fake my death or Moriarty's snipers would have killed you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. For the past three years I have been tracking all three of them down. I finally killed the last one, Sebastian Moran, the one who wouldve killed you yesterday. I was finally on my way back to 221B when I saw you standing over my grave," Sherlock said, his voice cracking on the last word. I could just barely see tears in his eyes, barely since my own tears were blurring my vision. "I called your name a few times and attempted to explain myself, thinking your gun had dropped, when your finger slipped and you shot your thigh. You must have passed out from shock and pain, so I used your phone to call 999. Ambulances came and took you, and Lestrade took me, thinking I had shot you, considering we didnt end on the best of terms. I was taken in for questioning, which was cut short by Mycroft, who claimed I was inno-"  
  
SMACK!  
  
Sherlock stumbled back, while Mycroft's eyes widened as he watched us.   
  
"Sherlock, you have put me through hell for the past three years," I started, nearly choking on my own tears. "Three. Fucking. Years! I prayed everyday for you to be alive, I visited your grave and told you, I mean... how the hell did you fake your death?"  
  
The younger Holmes dropped his head. "Molly helped me organize everything. I hired a bike to trip you so you would be distracted. You saw me falling, but you didnt see me hit the ground. People from the Homeless Network caught me, spilled some prank-blood on my face. Remember the black ball I was bouncing? I put it under my arm, blocking the artery, already knowing which arm you would check. Molly drove an ambulance, carrying me to her house. I knew it would be rather uncomfortable, so I lived in the graveyard, knowing youd be there, talking. I didnt want anything more than to just talk to you John, you dont understand. Before I returned to 221B and you, I had to kill those snipers, and thats what I did. I told Mycroft to keep an eye on you, but of course he screwed up the job. Why, John, why did you try and commit suicide?"  
  
"Mycroft and Molly knew you were alive, but you didnt tell youre only, as I recall, only friend?! You couldnt have called, just to say, 'Hey John, its Sherlock, I faked my death, see you when I kill some snipers'?" I replied, my voice raising to a strangled yell.  
  
"I couldnt risk Moran killing you, John. I dont understand though, and I always understand... I dont... I dont understand why you would try to kill yourself. Why?"  
  
I reluctantly let out a loud sob, then gingerly wiped my tears away. "I cant live without you," I started, words tumbling out by themselves. I had no control over my mouth. "I missed you, Sherlock. Over the past few years youve been gone, I dont think there was a day I didnt think about you, or didnt cry. I told myself to grow a pair and move on, but I couldnt. You know why?" I inhaled deeply. "Because I love yiu, Sherlock Holmes."

 


	4. Chapter 4

**SHERLOCK'S POV**  
  
  
"Because I love you, Sherlock Holmes."  
  
"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."  
  
"I love you."  
  
I heard John's voice ringing, echoing throughout my head. At first, I was completely speechless. I began plugging the pieces together: his suicide attempt - a sign of depression. Why kill yourself- what does it take until you decide to take your own life away? Loss, or pain. John certainly wasnt in any physical pain, mentally? I wouldnt know, or at least, didnt. Loss eventually fades away, unless in extreme cases, like the loss of a loved one.   
  
"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."  
  
Because John was given no indication that I was alive, he had thought I was actually dead. How could, for just this once, be so ignorant?  
  
John wanted to be with me. And, hell, I wanted to be with him too, as silly as it was. Me, Sherlock, the so called asexual, highly functioning sociopath- loved John? How could it have taken three long years to realize it?   
  
Completely ignoring Mycroft's gaping mouth, I bent over John, awkwardly cupped his cheeks, and met his lips with my own. I had never kissed anyone before, so I wasnt completely sure what I was suppose to do. I felt John wrap his arms around my neck, and his lips part. I followed his lead, and soon, I found myself doing things I would have never thought I would be doing. As soon as I heard the door click shut (Mycroft had left, undoubtably, thankfully), my lips began to part, and we found ourselves locked in a passionate kiss, as some might put it. The army doctor tilted his head and pushed my head closer, as I found my hands buried in his hair. I felt John bite my lip, and I... I moaned? I couldnt care less. I could only think about how much I wanted John, and how much John (obviously) wanted me. I could feel myself melting into the kiss, never wanting it to end-  
  
"Oh my God, I am so sorry!" A young woman's voice called from the door. I immediately broke the kiss, going through any, /any/, excuse I could to explain what I was doing. Of course, this one time, I didnt have anything.   
  
I cleared my throat. "Well dont just stand there, you obviously have something important to say. Spit it out!"  
  
The nurse stammered before /finally/ saying, "The doctor wanted me to tell John that is well enough to go home now."  
  
Finally. Home. 221B. John.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**JOHN'S POV**  
  
Not much terrifies me. At least not since the war, but when the nurse walked on Sherlock and I kissing, I think my heart nearly jumped out of its socket. I leant back into the bed, hands on my forehead. What did I just do? I didnt regret it at all but... what? Sherlock had feelings for me... too?  
  
"John," the detective said suddenly, just as the nurse had left. "I do have feelings for you, isnt it obvious?"  
  
I sighed. "You damn mind reader," I paused, trying to find words for what I wanted to say next. "So... does this mean, like... Are we a couple? I know you said you're married to your work and all, but-"  
  
"You're apart of my work, havent you figured that out? As for us being a couple... Ive never been in a relationship, and I might not be the boyfriend you wish to have."  
  
I pushed his ebony curls out of his face. "You are, Sherlock. You have for a very long time, and even though youve never been in a relationship... well, theres a first time for everything, right?" I smiled. "You can be aroggant, annoying, and impatient, but you're also..." I breathed. "Brilliant, fantastic, and so much more."  
  
The consulting detective smiled, then wrapped entertined his fingers with mine. "Ready to get going?"  
  
My face split into a bigger grin. "Oh, God yes."  
  
\-------  
  
After signing out of the hospital and a short cab ride, we found ourselves back at our proper home- 221B, Baker Street. My mind flashed back to the first day I met this brilliant man:  
  
"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street."  
  
And here we are, in the same exact position, same exact place as that day. This time we were ready to start a new chapter in our life.  
  
"You alright, John?" Sherlock asked, looking worried. Hm, Sherlock looking worried. That's new.   
  
"Completely fine," I gave him a reassuring smile, standing on my tiptoes to kiss him on the nose. I couldnt help it- he just seems... so adorable at times. I even caught a slight blush and a ghost of a smile as he inclined his head back toward the door of the apartment. I could tell he was having a somewhat hard trusting me after the incident, but now that Sherlock was back, I could be happy again.   
  
Without anymore hesitation, we walked inside 221B. As he had throughout the day, Sherlock let his emotionless façade fade away as a look of contentment passed his face. Everything was the same as the day he had left. The microscope was sitting out, old clothes were strewn across the floor, and all the other little details around the flat had been left untouched. Well, apart from the various body parts in the fridge.   
  
"John, where are the body parts?" Sherlock quesioned, his tone not comical.   
  
I made a noise between a laugh and a sigh. "Sherlock, they would've rotted away in there, and I needed to make room for food."  
  
The consulting detective grumbled, then threw himself onto his old chair. Even when he was bored, he was just too cute. I laughed quietly to myself, then disappeared into my room, or rather Sherlock's room. I moved in there because one, it was covient, two, it had smelled like him, which was comforting. The flat was freezing, so I had gone to get a jumper. After I pulled on my favourite cream jumper, I turned to go back into the parlour when I saw Sherlock standing in the threshold.   
  
"Yes, Sherlock?" I asked.   
  
"Did you move into my room, John?" the detective asked without anger, but rather mere confusion.   
  
I looked down at my shoes. "Y-Yeah, I'm sorry Sherlock, I-"  
  
"No John, it's alright," he replied, attempting a smile. "If you want, we could... share it?" It came out more like a question than a statement, but I couldn't help but grin back.   
  
"Sherlock, I can move back into my room for now if you aren't comfortable with me sleeping with you. I mean, we've only just began courting."  
  
"I don't mind, John. I wouldn't have asked if I were uncomfortable."  
  
"Alright, sure Sherlock. I have all your clothes in some boxes over there in closet. Ill make room in the drawer."  
  
After about an hour of tedious work, Sherlock became bored again. He sat in the corner of the room and went into his mind palace a few times before he began sighing again; the sighing becoming annoyingly louder each time I didn't reply. I kept on putting his clothes away when finally he let out an irritated noise. "John, I'm bored!" he finally said, throwing his arms at his sides.   
  
"Obviously," I imitated his deep voice, failing miserably. I couldn't help but double over laughing at my friend's expression: eyebrows knitted together, face pulled into a small frown. "C'mon Sherlock, it wasfunny!" I cried, my giggling dying down.   
  
"Oh yes, hilarious. Now entertain me."  
  
"Can't you entertain yourself, like a normal person? Work on your blog, try on a jumper, eat some jam-"  
  
"I'm not you, John!" Sherlock cried, clearly trying to hold back a smile. "Though we could go out to Angelo's. It's obvious you're hungry: you keep licking your li-." Right on que, my stomach rumbled.   
  
"I guess you're right, but you're going to eat too," I retorted, grabbing onto Sherlock's wrist, walking out of the flat, and out to hail a cab. The detective huffed.   
  
"Digestion slows me down," he whined once we got in the cab. I ignored him.   
  
"Angelo's, please," I told the cabbie, then turned to Sherlock. "Sherlock, we don't even have a case."  
  
"And?"  
  
"..."  
  
"..."   
  
"We're splitting a salad." I said in monotone, then grinning. I took my boyfriend's pale hand and kissed him on the cheek, causing him to smile. I loved being able to make Sherlock the slightest bit sentimental, though I would never admit it.   
  
Before we knew it, we were at the door of Angelo's. Sherlock grabbed my wrist and shoved me inside; I had been complaining the rest of the cab way here how I was hungry. He stayed outside, not coming indoors. I walked back outside with a confused expression. "Why aren't you coming inside?"  
  
The comsoting detective flipped the collar of his trench coat up. "I dont want anyone to recognize me, John. Im dead, remember?"  
  
I rolled my eyes. "Then, what are we doing here?"  
  
Sherlock facepalmed. "To get the salad for take-away. Anyways, I know you prefer the flat more than big crowds. I can tell becau-"   
  
"Alright, alright, I'll be right back! Dont go running off if you hear about a murder or something!" I ran back inside the restraunt before he could reply.  
  
"Ah, Doctor Watson, it's been awhile!" Angelo came striding up to me, shaking my hand. Maybe shaking my whole arm would be a better phrase.   
  
"Its good to see you too, Angelo," I smiled warmly when he let go of my hand.   
  
"Well, what would'ya like? Its on the house, especially for any friend of Sherlock's. I miss that fellow. I don't think he was a fake, do you?"  
  
I put on a face of faux misery. I didn't enjoy lying, but I didn't have any other options. "Yeah, he was my best friend. I miss him. I'll just take one caesar salad to go, thank you."  
  
"Comin' right up."  
  
\-------  
  
"Sherlock, I'm going to force feed you if you dont have at least one bite." We were back home in the flat, and Sherlock wasn't eating any of the salad.   
  
"You wouldn't. I'm not a child, I can feed myself, I'm just not really hun- Ummph!" In mid-sentence, I stuffed a huge bite into his mouth. "John!" he groaned with a full mouth. He chewed slowly, then swallowed. "It's not horrible," he concluded, a smirk growing on his face. "In fact, I may want some more."  
  
I finished swallowing my bite. "Wow, you actually like- mph!" Before I could finish my own sentence, Sherlock had placed his hands on either side of my face, then kissed me. Within seconds, he was expertly licking the outside of my lips, not to mention biting my lip. I groaned, then gladly parted my lips. At first, it was careful and caring, exploring each others mouths. A few moments later, when the kiss was just beginning to heat up, someone knocked on the door.   
  
Sherlock rolled off me, mumbling about how we couldn't have one break, then walked to the door (of course, pulling me along with him). With clear annoyance, my boyfriend had yanked back the door, revealing a worried Lestrade. "Usually you text John or me when there's a case, Lestrade. This must be more personal case, or something that has to do with John and I. Now what is it?"  
  
"Sherlock, John," he nodded his head toward us, then gulped subtly. "You're needed immediately back at Scotland Yard..."  
  
"Lestrade, John and I were in the middle of a perfectly nice lunch date. It can wait until tomor-"  
  
"It has to do with John's protection and Moriarty. Not to mention, Sherlock, you're the heart of the case."


	6. Chapter 6

**SHERLOCK'S POV**  
  
Not even I could define how quickly I had dragged John out of the flat, leaving behind Lestrade. I rose my hand and called,"Taxi!" Not soon enough were we on our way to Scotland Yard.  
  
I tried distracting myself by deducing what Lestrade had said, which was elementary (A/N: YEEEAHHH!). He was clearly saying something about Moriarty and something to do with the assassins. Did I come home too early? Didn't I take care of them all?  
  
 _\----FLASHBACK----_  
  
 _"Hellllloooo, Sherlock. Fancy meeting you here. How's John?" Sebastian Moran smiled from across the room. The building I had found him in was dark, dank, and would echo your words, whether you be whispering or yelling._  
  
 _Sebastian Moran: Former associate of Jim Moriarty's._ _Upper class, no longer speaks to family._ _No pets._ _No wife or husband._   
  
_John's supposed assassin. I saved Sebastian for last for a very good reason._  
  
 _"John is fine, and he'll continue to stay that way." I raised a gun towards the assassan's head and shot. A splatter of red painted the wall behind him, barely visible in the dark room. Sebastian fell to floor, completely silent, completely still. I left quickly, being so careless as to not even check the body._  
  
 _\----END----_  
  
That was it... no... wait! I didn't inspect the body.   
  
I didnt inspect the body!  
  
"Sherlock, are you alright?!" John yelled at me. I came out of my mind palace position, unaware I had been in the first place. I hadnt even been aware I was talking outloud. Since when did I become so careless?  
  
 _Lack of sleep._  
  
 _No real case for three years._  
  
 _No John for three years._   
  
Well there were a few reason, but I couldn't be bothered. Traffic was moving horribly slow, and John and I needed to leave immedietely. Without stopping to pay, I jumped out of the cab and ran toward Scotland Yard.   
  
"Sherlock, we forgot to pay!" John yelled from behind me.   
  
"We don't have time, John, much more important matters have arisen!" I replied, hearing a small groan come from my blogger. Within minutes we were in front of Scotland Yard, with John slightly out of breath and I too busy to focus on nothing but Sebastian. We burst in through the doors, earning stupidly surprised looks from Anderson, Donovan, and a few others I couldn't remember the names of. I stormed through the door of Lestrade's office, since he was inconveniently behind. After doing a quick survey of the room, I strode towards his personal file cabnets, checking under M for Moran and throwing aside anything else irrelevant onto the floor.  
  
"Sherlock.. knock it off! This isn't going.. to do anything!" Lestrade burst through the door, panting.   
  
"Wrong!" I yelled back, plucking the file out of it's place. I skimmed through it quickly, trying to find any new information I could on the assassin.  
  
 **Avid heroine user.**  
  
Boring.   
  
**Mentally disturbed; abused as a child.**  
  
Dull.  
  
 **Rumored to be past lover of the late James Moriarty.**  
  
Obviously. I told John and Molly I wasn't 'fooling around' when I said that Moriarty was gay.   
  
Wait.  
  
I spun around the office, looking for John. Unfortunately, the only one there was Lestrade.  
  
Where the bloody hell was John?  
  
Lestrade was just about to leave when I turned to him. "Lestrade, do you know where John is?"  
  
Lestrade looked at me with his mouth open, twisting from shock to a smirk. "This is a new one. Sherlock Holmes, the complete know-it-all, not knowing where his own boyfriend is."  
  
I glared at the detective inspector, siliently demanding an answer to my previous question. God, why does everyone have to be so slow and give me their stupid opinions when I never ask?  
  
"I dont know, Sherlock," he said, sighing. "I didnt see him come in with you."  
  
Within seconds I was out of Scotland Yard and thrust into the busy, rainy streets of London, frantically searching for my blogger. It was nearly an impossible task; pedestrians were swarming around London like bees, mindlessly pushing past me. I ran out into the middle of the street, causing a cab to nearly run into me. I could care less. John -short, _blond hair, cream jumper, black jeans_ \- was nowhere to be seen. I quickly began deductions:  
  
 _Most likely would've told me, or at the least texted me if he were going somewhere on purpose._  
  
 _Family emergency? No, would've called._  
  
 _Kidnap? No marks on the walls, floor, anything..._

 _Threatened? Held against will? Possibly. Well, if possibly means a ninety-six percent chance..._  
  
This 'case' was definitely a ten.   
  
I strode back under the overhead of Scotland Yard; being the object of honking cabs really obscures your train of thought. Not to mention how hard it was pouring. I grabbed my mobile and texted John immedietly, just to consider all the possiblities.  
  
 _Where are you? -SH_  
  
A few seconds later over the speeeding cars and talking people did I hear the tell-tale sound of John's ringtone for his texts coming from behind me. I glanced in that direction, and saw my blogger's phone, screen cracked, on the ground. Without hesitation, I picked up the phone.   
  
"Sherlock Holmes," I said.   
  
"Ahh, Sherlock Holmes! It's so nice to speak with you again!"   
  
In an instant, my emotionless façade was replaced with a twisted, shocked expression.   
  
"I wish I could say the same, Sebastian Moran."

 


	7. Chapter 7

**JOHN'S POV**  

"Sherlock, we forgot to pay!" I yelled at the consulting detective. I guess it was a bit hypocritical, considering I was getting out of the taxi too.  

"We don't have time, John, much more important matters have arisen!" he replied. I unintentionally groaned, then chased (or rather skidded my way, seeing as it was pouring hard and the concrete was quite slick) after my boyfriend through the jungle of cars, cabs, and buses. Five minutes later, Sherlock and I were at the front door of Scotland Yard. Sherlock was already inside when I leaned against the wall beside the entrance, catching my breath. Doing nothing but sitting around and sulking for three years really puts a damper on your physical, not mention mental fitness. I was about ready to leave the freezing outdoors for the heater inside Scotland Yard when I was abruptly whipped around by a pair of strong hands. 

"Ah, John Watson. Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance; I'm Sebastian Moran," a tall, well-built man said slyly, his mouth twisted into a forced smile. He had blonde hair, a bit of scruff, and had about four to five inches on me. 

"How do you know my name?" I asked, struggling to withdraw from Sebastian's tight grip. 

"Oh, I know many things. I have eyes everywhere," I about ready to tell him something along the lines of not getting into a certain someone's certain black car until he raised his voice. "but before you interrupt me, no, I'm not associated with that royal prat, Mycroft Holmes, whatsoever. But really- give me a topic, per se, Sherlock Holmes and you. I know that you would do anything for each other, so before your little boyfriend receives a bullet in the back of his thick skull, I suggest you calmly collect yourself and follow me." 

My eyes widened in surprise, but I grit my teeth to keep myself from saying something that could possiby get Sherlock killed and to stop myself from looking like an idiot by gaping. I stayed frozen, trying to decide what I should do. 

"John, I suggest we get moving. You see, my snipers… well, they get a bit antsy, and who knows when they'll start shooting if they don't see us moving shortly?" Sebastian teased, yanking the collar of my jumper closer to his face. Unbeknownst to him, I had felt my mobile fall out of my pocket. Because I was both panicking and seemingly had no other choice, I began to follow the sadistic bastard. All of my army skills (okay, I was an army doctor, but I did have my bad days!) had slipped down the drain. After a five minute walk, we reached an alleyway. 

"Ah, is this the part where you beat me to a bloody pulp, then carry me off to some abandoned building hours away?" I asked, not caring if I sounded annoyed. Yes, you could say I was somewhat terrified, but when you put both my military experiences and mix it together with my adventures with Sherlock, you learn to expect these sort of things. 

"Tsk, tsk, John. I would keep your mouth shut if I were you. My associates are still ready and armed," Sebastian lowered his face near mine, breathing down my neck. "Ooh, Sherlock's quite the lucky man. I see why he keeps you around. If I were him, I wouldn't let you out of my sight," he winked as I stepped back. After holding his stance for a moment longer, he straightened up then took out a mobile. "We're ready, don't waste my time, boys," he said lowly, then clicked off. God, he was exactly like Moriarty.

 Not one minute later, a black van with dark, tinted windows rounded the corner and headed towards Sebastian and I. I was so, unbelievably tempted to run back to Scotland Yard, but with another thought of Sherlock possibly dying again was enough to force myself into the car. I sat in the carseat, stuck with only Sebastian and a driver, and leaned my head against the window. I let out a sigh that had been stuck in the back of my throat, and looked out the window. The whole… ordeal was quite dramatic. Just like Moriarty and his gang.  

"Jooohhhnn," Sebastian teased yet again. I rubbed my along my face, sighed once again, and turned towards the creep.

 "What do you want?" I asked, holding a straight face. 

"You look a bit tired," he sighed, stretching out each syllable. He pushed up off his seat, and placed his hands on my shoulders. "Why not take a little nap?" With that said, his fist connected with my jaw. Quickly, I felt my consciousness fade away, replaced with a black veil. 

~ **Approximately Twenty Minutes Later~**  

"…Holmes! It's so nice to speak to you again!"  

Someone was speaking. 

I opened my eyes, light blinding me. Well, there was only one lamp above me, but it was bright enough. When I looked around, I noticed we, we being Sebastian and I, were in a familiar room. A dirty, familiar room, and on the floor: a simple word. Rache, a word meaning revenge in German, but was actually meant to say Rachel. Well, at least that's what Sherlock thought three years ago. Our very first case together, "A Study in Pink" took place… here. Right here. I tried to stand up, but noticed that both my hands and feet were handcuffed to a sturdy wooden chair. I tried calling out, but my words were muffled by duct tape. , I looked straight up into the eyes of Sebastian Moran… on his mobile. 

"Welcome back, John, so glad you're back to join Sherly and I!" he laughed, clicking on his speaker. "Oh, Doctor Watson, you silly tool. Of course I noticed your mobile that just happened to drop of your back jean pocket. Jim taught me a couple tricks on using sensory skills, and not just in the field of science," he winked. "Speaking of Jim, James, Moriarty, whatever you call him… he happened to give me his phone that day, on that dreadful day." I wasn't surprised he was associated with Moriarty, possibly in ways I didn't want to look into further. "Well, dreadful for you, John. You remember the fall, right? Oh, of course you do, how could you forget! Anyways, both your's and Sherlock's numbers happened to be in it, and me, who just so happens to have eyes all over London… well, a little birdie so happened to tell me that Sherlock found your phone, and texted me immediately… and now here-"

 "John!" Sherlock called through the phone. "John, I'll find you! Stay put!" 

"Aww, John, look. Your sociopathic boyfriend doesn't seem so sociopathic now, hmm? Oh, what's that?" 

I had been trying to say 'pink' to clue Sherlock in to where I was (yes, he could use Lestrade to track me down through the mobile, but I would assume that would take much more time than either of us would like to waste), but thanks to the tape I couldn't get it out. Before I could react, I felt the adhesive being violently ripped off of my mouth, taking semi-short stubble with it. 

"Pink!" I yelled as soon as it was off. "PI-"

 "Alright, that's enough then!" Sebastian screamed angrily, his eyes burning. He grabbed the roll of tape, and wrapped it my mouth several times.

 "John!" Sherlock yelled into the phone again. "Stay calm, I will be _right_ there!"

 "Then we'll see you soon, Sherly! Just be prepared," Moran sang. "A good, good friend of mine once said he'd burn the heart out of you… unfortunately, that great friend is now dead, thanks to you," he paused to laugh. What I'm trying to say is… before that great friend" Sebastian laughed, then turned to throw the mobile against the wall, breaking it into pieces. Not stopping to turn back around, Sebastian looked down and broke into yet _another_ terrifying smile. 

"Let's begin, John," he said, pacing towards me. However, instead of actually walking to me, Sebastian walked behind me. I tried twisting my head around to see what was going on, but all I caught was a glance of was a table. Followed by this glance did I hear either metal or glass clinking and water swirling. "Did you know that I was the one who was supposed to kill you if Sherlock hadn't fallen?" I narrowed my eyes and clenched my fists hard enough so that my nails dug into the middle of my palms. I tried breaking out of my bonds, attempting to break the chains of the cuffs but to no avail. "Calm down, Doctor Watson. It wasn't by choice did I want to kill you, it was Jim's orders. Well, I won't lie and say I wasn't eager to do the deed if it came down to it. In fact, I was quite disappointed when Sherlock fell." I was pissed, but I tried not to let it get the best of me; this isn't primary school. Well, not until I was free. 

 Slowly, the bloody maniac came back in front of to reveal a knife soaked in liquid. Again, I triedeven harder to break out of the cuffs. The only thing that to achieved was the creation of new indents in the skin of my wrists. "Calm down," he repeated. "It will take Sherlock at _least_ twenty minutes to get past the obstacles I've put up for him. Might as well get comfortable. He raised the knife to my upper lip, dragging it across my skin, across the duct tape, and onto my chin. I felt my eyes stinging, but knew I had gone through much, much worse.  

I had no idea what was coming.

 All of the sudden, I felt my upper lip burning. "What the bloody hell is on that knife? Why- why are you doing this?"

 "Alcohol. I'm burning the heart out of both you and Sherlock. Isn't that brilliant?" He began dragging the knife down my front. 

I gasped, "I… I don't... u-understand." 

"Of course you don't, you're too average. Let me put this simply," he whispered, dipping the knife back into the alcohol. "It's obvious enough. You are the heart of Sherlock, the only one he truly… feels for." Sebastian began tracing the knife over my chest in a heart shape, cutting deep enough to leave blood in its wake. I leaned my head back, squeezing my eyes shut. I could feel my chest burning, and God was it painful. With no other remarks, I felt the weapon plunge into my thigh. 

The same thigh that I shot. 

Between the memories and the torture, I screamed. I shut my eyes again, then opened them only to see blood pooling below me. Next were my sides- two long slits down from the bottom of my ribs to the top up my hip. On my stomach were three simple letters... three simple letters that happened to mean so much. 

I. 

O. 

U. 

"W-Why w-would you take… d-do this to me," I mumble, throwing my head back. I unintentionally let my tears fall, along with my dignity. 

"Because my dear Watson, Sherlock killed my lover, and now I'm going to kill his," he leaned into my ear. With that said he raised the steak knife- well, was raising the steak knife when a deep, hope-bringing voice boomed across the room. 

"England will fall before I ever see John Watson die on my watch."

 


End file.
